


heart on fire

by diana_hawthorne (stsgirlie)



Category: Cracks (2009)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 13:43:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5336210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stsgirlie/pseuds/diana_hawthorne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is later, when she is made Captain of the swim team, that she first enters her room alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heart on fire

she is a woman of honour and  
smartness whose wild love leaves  
out luck, always taking risks,  
and there is something in her  
brow now, that only she can  
recognise in a mirror. ideal and  
idealistic in that shiny dark hair!  
people fall in love with her.  
-michael ondaatje

she called us to her room at night,  
she made us drunk on wine.  
we searched the truth with all our might;  
for her we write these lines.  
-sheila kohler

She sleeps and breathes and dreams of her, thinks of her every moment of every day. Sees her – in the reflection of the lake, the clouds, even the stained-glass windows of the chapel. Smells her – in the magnolia petals by the graves, the roses in the garden. Hears her – along the narrow stone corridors of the school, in the creak of the dormitory door. Feels her – in the silky texture of her headscarf, the rough tweed. Tastes her – in the smoky bite of the cigarette, the lake water.

They smoke together, sometimes, cigarette smoke mingling with the freshwater scent of the lake, the waves lapping gently against the boat, her perfume surrounding her and drawing her further into a world that is both exotic and familiar. Then, the kisses come – experienced, worldly, leaving her begging silently for more.

It is later, when she is made Captain of the swim team, that she first enters her room alone. The room is, if possibly, more mysterious than ever, in the dim light, in her solitude. She steps over to the gramophone, letting the needle fall onto one of her foreign records – Puttin’ on the Ritz – and then yanks it off again, quickly, before anyone else can hear. It is late, after all, and she is not supposed to be out of bed.

There are postcards from foreign lands and souvenirs from them too – rich silks and wooden carvings and all manner of things that have no discernible purpose – at least to her naïve eye. She sinks onto the floor, stretching out on the plush Oriental carpet, and closes her eyes. She inhales and smells dust and the school but beneath it all, Miss G.

She hears her footsteps, sharp and clear then muffled as she kicks off her shoes and pads across the carpet, kneeling next to her.

‘Would you care for something to drink?’

Without waiting for an answer she pulls out two half-bottles of wine, red and white, pouring them with a great glug-glug into a white pitcher, the peculiarly rosy liquid then poured out into large glasses.

She drinks, and drinks, and drinks, the alcohol going to her head and making her lightheaded and lighthearted. Watching her teacher, she notices the peculiar way she looks at her, head tilted and eyes burning, burning.

And she burns too.


End file.
